The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  ‘I met you in the physic garden.’

  ‘With my hay fever? I can’t even go there in the depths of winter. You think cats are bad. Try me with pollen. I sneeze out a lung even thinking about the place.’

  Charles felt his chest tightening. ‘Patrick, when did you last see Nicole?’

  ‘Who?’ The academic scratched his head. ‘Is this some kind of initiation rite?’

  Jumping to his feet, Charles sprinted through the flat, down the flight of stairs and out into the street.

  Nicole was lying on the bed, a crocheted pillow in her arms, when the back door slammed and Charles called out her name.

  ‘Up here.’ Nicole heard his feet pounding up the stairs and when the door to the bedroom opened, she rolled over and smiled at him.

  He looked terrible. For the first time since she’d known him, he hadn’t shaved. And his eyes looked different. Haunted.

  ‘Hi.’ He stared down at her, and then he noticed the journal propped open on the bed: European Folklore and Mythology. ‘You’ve read it, then.’

  She shrugged. ‘Curiosity got the better of me in the end.’

  ‘It gets us all.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He shut the door and came over to the bed. ‘I think we need to talk about some things.’

  She patted the covers. ‘I think we probably do.’

  ‘Nicole—’ His voice cracked. He sat down, his head bowed.

  ‘Charles, are you crying?’

  Wiping his eyes, he shook his head.

  ‘What is it?’ She propped herself up on one arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nicole . . . My God, Nicole. However did I have the good grace to find you?’

  ‘Overwhelming luck, probably.’ Reaching for him, she tugged him on to the bed.

  ‘If I ever lost you—’

  ‘You came spectacularly close.’

  ‘Do you really want to stay here?’ he asked. ‘In Oxford?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He sighed, touched her face. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘I know. You’ve a strange way of showing it sometimes, but I know you do. Come here.’

  She pulled him to her. And then, for the first time in weeks, they made love. Afterwards, lying naked in his arms, Nicole reflected just how much she had missed their closeness. She had never seen him cry, had never seen him so vulnerable. It troubled her. She wondered what had caused it.

  Stirring, Charles rolled on to his side and stared into her eyes. ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’

  She reached out a hand, ruffling his hair. ‘I’m a lucky girl indeed. The great Professor Meredith, prostrate before me, prepared to grant my every whim.’

  ‘I’m serious. Whatever you want.’ He looked over at the bedside table, where the diaries of her ancestors lay in a pile. ‘What are those?’

  Nicole smiled. She managed not to jerk away from him. Hoped that her face did not betray her. ‘Just some old books.’

  He nodded.

  Wanting to gasp for air, forcing herself instead to take a measured breath, she studied his face – the line of his jaw, the sagging skin at his throat, his bushy eyebrows, matted hair.

  And then, as calmly as she could, Nicole rose naked from the bed. She felt his eyes on her body as she pulled on her dressing gown. When she turned back to him, he was smirking, a predator’s smile.

  ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll join you.’

  Nicole went out into the hall. She blotted two tears from her eyes.

  Don’t let him see. Don’t let him suspect.

  Was Charles dead? Was it already too late? Down the hall to the landing. Down a twisting flight of stairs to the lobby. Through to the kitchen, where she filled the kettle, plugged it in and turned to see that the man who looked like her husband but might not be had followed her into the room.

  Trembling, she opened a cupboard and removed two cups. Took the pouch of coffee from the fridge. Spooned grains into the cafetière. Fumbled the container trying to put it back in the fridge. Dropped it.

  Coffee grains slid across the floor in a brown tide. ‘Jesus.’

  The creature that might not be Charles shook its head. ‘Never mind. Is there a brush?’

  ‘I can do it.’ Nicole fetched the brush and swept up the grains, teeth grinding. She emptied the dustpan into the bin as the kettle boiled, then poured water into the cafetière. ‘I saw Sarah this morning.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  There was no Sarah. Facing the counter, her back to him, Nicole suppressed a sob. ‘She said you’ve agreed to teach her French class again.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘I don’t remember. But I’m happy to.’

  Next to the cafetière stood the kettle. Next to the kettle, the toaster. Next to the toaster, a wooden block containing six incredibly sharp Sabatier knives Nicole had brought back from Thiers.

  She glanced over her shoulder. In the breakfast nook, he had plucked a photo frame from the windowsill and was studying it intently. The picture was of Hannah, taken when she was thirteen. The girl sat in a canoe, life jacket over a summer vest, smiling up at the camera. They had been on a family holiday along the Dordogne. Two weeks of camping by the river, cooking over a stove, telling stories underneath the stars.

  The man that might be Charles looked up at her and grinned, and Nicole finally admitted to herself that he was an impostor. She turned back to the kitchen counter, thinking that her legs might give way. Imagine that. Sprawled on the floor with that monster behind her. She swallowed, forced herself not to run.

  In Carcassonne, how long had Petre impersonated her father before killing him? Days? Weeks? Was this the first time Jakab had visited her? The tenth? If it had not been for that simple error upstairs, she would never have even suspected.

  You made love to him.

  Charles’s recent publishing success must have brought him here. The book, with its dust jacket photograph. The journal article. Both had been published within the last month. How long had it taken Jakab to discover them? How long to track Charles down? He couldn’t have been here more than a few weeks, perhaps only a few days. Perhaps this was the first time he had visited. If that were the case, then her husband was probably still alive.

  Maybe.

  Possibly.

  ‘The jeweller phoned,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Said your watch was ready.’

  ‘I’ll pick it up in the morning.’

  Nicole heard him walk up behind her. There was no jeweller. No watch.

  She turned around.

  Jakab was standing in front of her, the picture of Hannah still in his hands. He was laughing.

  She picked up the cafetière from the counter and flung its contents in his face. Boiling coffee engulfed him and he screamed, staggering backwards. The photo frame dropped from his hands. It smashed on the tiled floor.

  ‘Do you have any idea how much that hurts?’ he roared. When he straightened, she saw that the skin of his face was a bright, scalded red. Coffee grains and liquid dripped from his chin. Crazily, he laughed again. ‘Damn, but it wakes you up, doesn’t it? That’s what they say about good coffee. Gives you a kick.’

  Nicole yanked a carving knife out of the block. The wooden cube bounced off the counter. Knives clattered to the floor, their steel shafts spinning. She jumped forwards and slashed at him. He was fast – too fast – shielding his face with an arm. The blade sliced through the fabric of his jacket. Blood flicked across the room.

  Nicole lunged, intent this time on burying the knife in his face. He dodged. Before she managed to pull back the blade far enough to thrust at him a second time, her foot slipped i
n the boiling coffee. She toppled backwards, cracking her head against the counter as she fell.

  Sprawled on the tiles, Nicole felt coffee burning her legs. The blow had stunned her, the shock too intense to let her move. Glancing down, she saw that her dressing gown gaped open, exposing her nakedness. She gasped at the horror of it.

  Jakab tore a tea towel from the back of a chair and mopped his face. Already the red blotches were fading. He tossed away the cloth and examined the tear in his jacket. ‘Oh, you absolute bitch. Look what you’ve done. Seriously, Nicole, look at this. Do you know how much I liked this jacket? I saw Charles wearing something similar last week and looked everywhere for one.’

  On the floor to her left, a small filleting knife lay just within reach. She inched out her fingers towards it.

  Jakab paced up and down in front of her, holding his hands against the sides of his head. ‘Calm down, Jakab, calm down. It’s not too late, it’s not. Salvage it, that’s what you do. Yes. That’s what you’re good at.’

  Nicole touched the cold handle of the filleting knife. Her stomach flipped. She thought she might be sick.

  Jakab snatched the smashed photo frame from the floor and brought it over to her. ‘Who’s this? Who is it?’

  Her fingers crabbed over the handle of the knife. Closed around it.

  ‘It’s Erna, that’s who it is. How? She’s dead, Nicole. Dead. This is a colour photograph.’ He thrust the picture at her.

  She dragged the knife across the tiles.

  ‘Oh, do you have to?’ He lifted his foot and stamped down.

  The bones in her wrist crunched. She screamed, pulling her shattered arm towards her.

  Jakab kicked the filleting knife across the room. He noticed the other knives, and kicked them all away from her. ‘All this time looking for you, Nicole. All these years. And look at you. Old. Old and spiteful. Vicious.’ He paused, sucked in a breath. ‘Who is the girl?’

  ‘It’s me, Jakab.’

  ‘Liar! Get up.’

  She scissored her legs in front of her. ‘Where’s Charles?’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘What have you done to him?’

  ‘He’s dead. Now answer my question.’

  She cried out, her heart unravelling.

  Jakab grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He shoved her back against the counter. ‘I’m going to ask you a final time. Who is she? Where is she?’

  Tears coursing down her cheeks, Nicole stared at him, at the monster that looked like her husband but was not.

  Jakab pulled back his fist and punched her in the face.

  She woke, slumped on a chair in the corner of the breakfast nook. Her right eye was gummed shut. Her mouth tasted of blood. She raised her head drunkenly, looked about her.

  Jakab sat across the table. He had removed the ruined jacket and was dressed in one of Charles’s cashmere jumpers. Oxford Blue.

  On the table, arranged in front of her, stood eight photo frames. He must have toured the house for them while she was unconscious. Each frame contained a different picture of Hannah.

  Hannah dressed as an angel at a school play. Hannah posing on a sports field with hockey stick and ball. Hannah on a trampoline. Hannah and Charles splashing in the sea.

  ‘Her name’s Hannah,’ Jakab said. ‘And she’s your daughter.’

  Nicole said nothing. She looked up at him. Stared into his dead eyes.

  ‘You know, I really didn’t want this to happen,’ he continued. ‘I really wanted to make this work. Despite what I said – about you being old and spiteful – I enjoyed what we did earlier. There’s definitely a positive element to your aggressive streak.’

  She spat at him. A thick curdle of blood. It splattered across his cheek.

  He sighed. ‘But you are vicious. It’s a shame. Where can I find her?’

  ‘I’ll kill you first.’

  Jakab raised a hand to his face and wiped away the clot of blood and saliva. He stood up and walked across the kitchen, returning with a cloth. He used it to clean his fingers.

  Moving around the table, he sat on the chair beside her. ‘You’re not going to tell me. I didn’t think you would. Not really. You’re stubborn, just like the rest of them. It’s not an attractive trait, Nicole.’

  He reached out to her. She flinched away from him, but her movement caused the room to tilt and spin.

  Jakab began to talk, soothingly, as if to a wounded bird he was hoping to mend.

  Perhaps that’s what I am, she thought. A wounded bird. Too badly broken now.

  ‘I’m going to gently – very gently – take your head in my hands,’ he said, reaching out, sliding his fingers through the hair above her ears. ‘And you’re going to let me, that’s it, just like that, exactly like that. You see, you might not know this, you probably don’t, but there’s this old hosszú élet parlour trick. It’s quite a good one. I don’t know how it works, I don’t even know how I do it. But it does work, and that’s all that really matters.’

  She felt the palms of his hands against her temples, felt a sudden warmth from them. Nicole tried to turn her head away, but Jakab eased it back towards him, smiling, always smiling. The warmth in his hands became a heat, and suddenly she felt a lance of pain in her head.

  ‘It won’t hurt for long,’ he told her. ‘That’s it, relax.’

  She felt her heart begin to thump in her chest, its beat accelerating. Dropping her mouth open, she panted, feeling the blood in her arteries beginning to race. A huge pressure was building in her throat, in her head. The walls of her skull felt like they were bulging. Her ears popped.

  Then, quite suddenly, Nicole felt something rupture in her left eye, found herself blinking at him through a tide of crimson. She opened her mouth to shriek.

  Jakab tilted his head as he watched her. ‘I always find this part fascinating. Where do you go?’

  Charles parked on the street outside his house, switched off the engine and unclipped his seat belt. He rubbed his face and stared at the sweat glistening on his fingers. One question repeated in his mind.

  What have you done?

  The man he had visited earlier was undoubtedly Beckett. The creature he had met in the physic garden yesterday undoubtedly was not. They had looked identical, sounded identical, acted identical. But the impostor who had shown him the Royal Decree had seemed pleased at Charles’s discomfort. Had mocked him with his eyes.

  Charles stared at his house, at the home he had shared with Nicole for the last twelve years. What did they do now? The experiences of those who had already travelled this path suggested only one option. Flee. Immediately. Pack up the necessary things, the few precious and irreplaceable things – letters, photographs. Find Nicole. Collect Hannah from her school. Leave.

  What have you done?

  He knew where their passports were, knew the whereabouts of his important documents. He had about a thousand pounds in cash inside the house. Enough for their immediate needs. He could quickly get more.

  A shadow passed across the bevelled glass of the front door. Instinctively, Charles ducked down on to the passenger seat. Raising his head, he watched the door open and saw an identical Charles Meredith step outside.

  ‘Oh my God, no.’

  The creature was wearing his favourite Oxford Blue sweater. It shut the door behind it and walked down the path to the street.

  Charles rolled off the seat and wedged himself in the floor well. He realised he was shivering, convulsing. He did not know how long he lay there, but when he sat up, looking up and down the street, his nightmare double had gone. Charles clambered out of the car. He felt his jaw moving, his teeth clattering together in his mouth.

  In the hall, he called out his wife’s name. All the lights were on. He walked down the corridor to the kitchen, noticing that
many of the photographs that lined the wall had disappeared. Discoloured oblongs of wallpaper announced their absence.

  He opened the door to the kitchen and found a pool of what looked like coffee on the floor. Footprints had skidded and slipped through it, leaving trails. In one corner lay an empty knife block. In another, its collection of knives. A bloodied tea towel was bunched up on the work surface. On the kitchen table he saw a collection of photo frames, their backs towards him. On a chair, facing him, sat Nicole.

  Charles closed the door behind him, shutting them both inside the room. The phone hung from a bracket on the wall beside the fridge. Pinned to a cork board above it was a list of important numbers. Nicole had put them there for him, as he was always misplacing things. Charles stared at the list for a while, looking for the number he needed. Then he picked up the phone and dialled.

  A woman answered.

  He cleared his throat and explained that he needed to speak to Hannah Meredith, that he was her father, and that it was urgent. The woman listened, and put him on hold while someone was sent to fetch his daughter from her class.

  From the breakfast nook, his dead wife watched him. It looked as if, at the end, she had wept tears of blood. Her left eye was closed. Beads of blood oozed from beneath her eyelid. Her right eye stared at him, a bright red orb. He didn’t like to look at it for long. Didn’t want to remember her that way. Her bathrobe was open. Blood had gushed from her nose. It had splashed down her breasts on to the round curve of her stomach.

  He didn’t understand this. He had thought that Jakab wanted her. Had thought that had been the point.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Hannah.’

  ‘What’s happened? Everything all right?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Charles paused, turned his back on his wife. It was difficult to concentrate with her staring at him like that. ‘I’m afraid I need you to walk out of school. Right now. Once I finish talking, you need to hang up and just go. Do you understand?’

  A pause on the other end of the line. ‘. . . Did he come?’

  ‘Yes, Hannah, he did.’

  ‘Is Mum with you?’